Who cares? The tears dry up into bitter red salt crystals On the petals fallen to this ball of water and rocks, muddied In lush vegetation trampled by boots, slippers, silent cymbals. They clang, but the ears float far away, like the soul halo In the backlit fumes of fresh foray against foe and friend, For revenge is mellow so that metal and more can billow. But who hears? The blue bird chirps its pain in arrows And hearts, and graphic designers design gore for that Yet the glass stays cold despite blood, char, and ash it shows. It stank to them who stole the pictures to horrid memory, But not to me. No phone can relay those chemicals to me Or the emotions that come with walking on war territory So I smile, and swipe left. Denial is the media's vial, Filled with self-loathing poison, the ministers love it too. More bullets, more fire, and less genocidal survival. (c) nyonglema
It all starts with the “genos” part:
If there’s no race, it doesn’t exist
So history gets braided into little kids’ hairs
Till they remember only the victor’s tryst
With death, in order to save our forebears
For graves never wrote history. A cyst
Of truth is hidden deep where the death of fear
Meets the death of youth at the barrel to the sun.
Lifafa is wiped with the shroud of Um
Till “genos” is but a word in beach sand.
And with no “genos” there’s no “cide” :
Self defence is the panacea of every atrocity
Little children with gaping brains
Young girls’ cocoons bitterly maimed
Young boys disappear to be brutally tamed
Humanity at the end of life gets hastened
And propaganda is Elvis doing a pirouette
On a 60s world stage where truth was left
In the cold of the theatre’s steps.
So no “genos”, no “cide” and the UN higher-ups can tuck their kids in cosy blankets, with Winnie the Pooh splayed along the left creases, give a forehead kiss, walk to their own bed, sleep and prepare for another non-eventful day at work.
Did you torch him? You? You? You torched him?
Your brother, not from mother, nor father,
But even though farther, your brother from long ago
When our common fathers hunted and gathered to cope????
You? You just torched him??? ‘Cos he’s different???
‘Cos this instant the labels are different
But inconsistent with what is your actual content,
Which is similar in many intents, and variously intense!!!
You???You…;wait, REALLY you torched him???
For selling bread to your community?
For paying taxes so your commute’s sweet???
And you torched him?
Is your language so different? Did you stop to think
As you kinked his arm, and bloodied his chin
That all languages and peoples are from One evolved
As migration and separation took firm resolve,
Pushing the words and syntax to match the status quo
Which each would find, and adapt to grow!!!
But you just torched him? And stood as fumes reeked
Human flesh searing in screaming death
Human flesh fearing its family’s death
For what? Did he call your momma a b—-?
Did he walk into your house and defile your sheets?
Did he break your code? Wear the wrong number or colour
Or try to seed pain within your family’s hold?
Was it him? Wait….what’s his crime?
That he came from another clime?
That his country is so different, from what you call “Mine”
Like an infant clutching his latest choo-choo train
Watching a sibling wishing he had the same????
What’s a country, what’s a city, what’s a tribe?
Names on pieces of paper to aggravate and divide!
Yet, your premise to take this innocent life
Is that he has no place in this land in which you reside?
Hold on….who made you owner of Earth?
Are you Mars with the sword, or have Zeus’s girth?
Are you Hades with his scythe, or what…you just own this dirt?
This dirt on which you’re just a speck…a sneeze in the space-time continuum?
Who made you the golden drop of the seas?
Watch…watch your dirt!!!! WATCH IT!!!
Charred chaffed and choke-held by rigor mortis
Never to see his family again, his friends.
His wife will never kiss those lips again
His kids will never be hugged the same again.
Yet the little baby will have no memory of the pure love
He now misses in a step-dad who considers him as the other man’s child.
Yet yesterday you said “Umjani”, and smiled back
And took the beer he offered, and took his hand in the mall.
You walked the same roads, traveled together, took the bus
Shoulder to shoulder: you and the dead “criminal”.
You torched him….ooooooh…you just torched him.
Now they all have to run. Now all blacks have to run
If they don’t speak one of the Chosen tongues.
You torched him, you torched them, you’ll torch them.
Their crime: you just hate them for being different.
You hate those who fought with you when you were hated for being different.
You kill those who fought by you when you were killed because your skin is different.
Now you’re free, and you’re killing others because their name’s different.
God help you…but f— the xeno-negro-ethno-phobia you’ve learnt.
It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclop’s smiley face
For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface.
It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises
It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped
It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
“Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting.
For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets.
It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions.
Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked human flesh
Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of Homo sapiens?